


Terrifying Urge

by Malcolm Bright Eyes (3emo5you)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 1x03, AU, Angst, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Whump, Self-Harm, Suicidal Malcolm, Suicidal Thoughts, Worried Gil, depressed malcolm, malcolm bright angst, prodigal son angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 12:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21458092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3emo5you/pseuds/Malcolm%20Bright%20Eyes
Summary: AU for the beginning of 1x03Malcolm just seems to be disappointing everyone today. He can’t help but let the terrifying urges take him over.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 365





	Terrifying Urge

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a fic ever so I hope it gets well received. I noticed a distinct lack of self harm/suicide fics especially considering this fandom and the general episode contents so I decided to remedy that.

Not high enough. That’s all he can think as he stares out of his broken window. High enough to do a bit of damage, but to kill him? No. Not even close. The building he lives in isn’t particularly high and he lives at the very top. The only higher place would be the roof, but that still would not be high enough. He can’t take any chances. 

Urges like this hit him every once and a while. Urges to not exist. To no longer be a part of this cruel world that chewed him up and spit him out so many times. The terrible, depressing words filtering into his mind scare him sometimes. The fact that his own mind is doing this to him. He terrifies himself. 

Every episode starts the same. Different triggers, but the same steps. Survey the room. Look at what surrounds him. Take notice of every bit of empty space, every object. Can it be used to kill him? Will it just hurt? It has to be full proof. It has to be full proof. 

He tries to shake the thoughts out of his mind. He knows that killing himself would do nothing but hurt the people he loves. He just can’t help but think that they may just be relieved if he died. That’s what really brings the thoughts. He just disappointed his mother. He hurt her so bad that she hit him. Gil is mad at him. He’s been manic and messy on this case, and he’s pushing the limits. Ainsley is always over shadowed by him. He’s dad’s prodigy, mom’s biggest trouble, and a pain to be around. 

Even his therapist would be better off without him. He’s a man in his thirties bothering his childhood therapist because he’s too scared to find a new one. JT and Dani would be absolutely relieved if he was gone. No more worrying about the crazy profiler that Gil has adopted. 

His father is that only one that would be displeased. His only connection to the outside world, he best little toy to mess with, his prodigy. He wouldn’t be happy if Malcolm was gone. But maybe that’s a good thing.

Malcolm smacks his hands on his counter. He needs to stop. He doesn’t even know how or when he left the edge of the window, but now he’s standing in his kitchen with Sunshine’s twittering in the background. His eyes and throat are burning and he can feel hot wet streaks on his face. His hand aches from aggravating the wound on his palm and the thoughts won’t leave him alone. There is a pressure on his chest that won’t let up no matter how much air he tries to get in through choppy, broken breaths. 

Through the ragged breathing and the chirps he hears a faint sound emanating from his bedroom. His phone. There are only a few people that could be calling him and he doesn’t want to talk to a single one of them. After one ring it stops. How long had it been ringing for before he noticed it? 

He’s stiff and in pain. His movements are slow as he walks over to check his phone. Not even ten seconds after the ringing stopped does it start again. They must have been calling for a while. He picks up the pace. Most of the people that could be calling him right now carry a high probability of breaking into his apartment to check up on him. 

He reaches his bed and presses the answer button just as it’s about to ring out. 

“Hello?” Malcolm’s voice is scratchy from trying not to cry and there is no way to hide it. 

“Malcolm!” Gil, “I’ve been calling you for the past fifteen minutes. I was about to head over there and check up on you. It’s not like you to ignore my calls.”

“Sorry Gil.” His voice is small and rough. “I was busy and left my phone elsewhere. Is something wrong?”

“Yeah actually, you wanna tell me why your mother just barged into my office and told me that you fell out a window this morning?” Gil was mad at him. He just can’t get it right today. 

“It was an accident, Gil. I’m totally fine,” he explained in his attempt at a reassuring voice, “I didn’t hit the ground or anything, I climbed right back in.”

Malcolm could hear Gil sigh from his end of the line. “Malcolm,” he started, “what is going on with you? I’ve never seen you this bad and you’ve just been getting worse. I’m worried.”

“I’m fine.” His answer was short and quick. He sounded suspicious but he didn’t care. He had to end this call. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I don’t think that’s the truth.” Gil’s words hit him like a punch to the gut. 

Before he knows what he’s doing, his phone is hung up and being dropped on to his bed. Almost immediately it starts to ring again. The screen says Gil, but Malcolm ignores it. 

Pills could work. It won’t take much too kill him. He hardly eats and his sleep schedule is basically nonexistent. His body is constantly weak, just begging for a little push over the edge. The only problem is taking too much. A few too many pills and his body will completely reject them. Forcing him to vomit frothy blood all over his kitchen floor. He has a small window that would work. Not worth the risk. Something else. 

He suddenly becomes aware that he’s really planning this. Is he? Maybe. Just as a backup plan, that’s all. 

He walks past his kitchen and into his living area. His wall of weapons directly in front of him. A knife would work. Blood loss is an easy way to go. Painful, messy, and long. Not the most appealing but maybe he didn’t deserve otherwise. Only problem, he can’t stand the thought of tarnishing such beautiful artifacts with his blood. 

He turns around and heads to his bathroom. None of his kitchen knives would be sharp enough. He’s vaguely aware of all the noise around him. Sunshine’s anxious twittering, his phone ringing nonstop, the pats of his bare feet on the hard floor. 

He locks the bathroom door behind him, years of muscle memory still forcing him to be cautious in his own home. He lifts his shaky, bandaged hand to the mirror and opens it. He ignores his ragged reflection in favor of grabbing his razor blades. He doesn’t often use a strait razor, generally preferring the stubble left behind from clippers. He carefully removes a blade from one of the refills. He earns a knick on his ring finger for his troubles, but it doesn’t bleed, it just burns. 

He sets the little piece of metal on the sink in front of him. This is just an option. A good one. He remembers his loved ones, how they would be sad if he died, but he’s smart enough to realize that after the pain, they will be better. Less baggage, less weight, less Malcolm. 

He picks up the blade again. He’s hit with the sudden realization that someone would have to clean up the mess he’s about to make. His eyes reluctantly leave the blade as he looks around and thinks. The bathtub. A little bit of washing out will be an easy task, so he walks to the bath and steps into it. He stands for a second. Am I really about to do this? Just considering. Just considering it. 

He sits in the tub, knees pulled up to his chest as his shaking hand still grasps the razor. Before he knows what he’s doing, he brings his other arm up and hovers the razor over it. Just a test. He presses down and pulls it toward his elbow. The mark is only an inch long but it’s deep enough. The blood takes a moment to come to the surface. Small droplets bubble up past his skin, but nothing spills over because it’s so small. Just a test anyways. The cut produces a slight stabbing ache but is more of a nuisance than anything else. 

He rests both wrists on his knees, just watching the blood. Maybe he should test it again. 

Twenty minutes pass of just sitting there. Thinking. Looking. He pushes on the skin around the cut to get more blood to flow to the surface but it’s all dry now. It dried a while ago. He brings the blade back to his wrist and makes a parallel mark to the first. This one is twice as long and a bit deeper. It feels like nothing and that brings him a wave of unforeseen frustration and anger. 

Malcolm brings blade to wrist for the third time and-

“Malcolm?” A breathy voice comes from the possibly broken bathroom door. 

Gil is standing there, eyes wide in shock and panic at seeing Malcolm. His own eyes leave his arms and he looks up at Gil.

“What are you doing?” His voice is soft and obviously still panicked at what he stumbled upon. 

Malcolms expression doesn’t change until Gil takes a small step forward. He flinched and his eyes widen. He looks manic. Gil freezes and puts is hands up in front of himself. The air between the two is tense as they look at each other. Both in fear.

Gil takes another hesitant step forward and then another as Malcolm didn’t move. He cautiously made his way over to the bathtub and crouched down beside it. A hesitant hand reaches for the razor and Malcolm pulls away, eyes still wide with fear and mania. He can’t look away. Gil looks right back at him, just as scared. He reaches out once again and this time grabs the razor. He gently removes it from the shaking hand and tosses it into the sink behind them. 

Gil turns back to the tub. Hands reach out and grab Malcolm on the shoulders with a small shake. The two men look each other in the eyes before Gil pulls him in for a fierce hug. Malcolm automatically brings his own arms up to return the embrace. He is faintly aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking into Gil’s sweater, but he’s too out of it to do anything. 

He can hear Gil let a sob slip and tighten the embrace before he pulls away, still leaving hands on his shoulders. He can feel the man being a hand up and wipe the uncontrollable tears in vain as he sits there motionless. 

Gil takes a look at his wrist and squeezes his eyes shut. The blood is slowly yet sluggishly coming up to the surface. His eyes open and look back up to Malcolm. He brings a gentle hand up to his kid’s face before standing and leaving for the kitchen for a towel. 

He looks down at the blood. It’s still bleeding. The first one is dry but the second is still bleeding. Just not enough. Not nearly as much as he wants, no, needs it to be. He wants to make a third mark but Gil took his blade and he can’t bring himself to stand. 

Gil returns in less than a minute to find Malcolm sitting in the same position staring down at his wrist and bushing at his skin to make more blood bubble up. He kneels beside the tub again and places a gentle hand on Malcolm’s uninjured arm, stopping his movements. 

“Let’s get you out of this tub.” Gil stands again and brings Malcolm up with him. His legs are shaky but Gil is holding him up. He puts the towel onto the bleeding arm and gently leads him out of the bathroom. 

He blinks and their in his bedroom. The hands in his shoulders push him down to sit on the bed. The body they’re connected to is saying something but he can’t make out the words. A pair of worried eyes are looking at him, likely waiting for him to respond but he can’t. 

Gil pulls the towel up from his wrist to find that the bleeding has just about stopped. He takes a look at Malcolm, decides that he’s not moving on his own any time soon, and leaves to get the kid’s first aid kit. 

He returns after a small search to exactly what he expected. Within a minute, bandages, alcohol wipes, and gauze are laid out on the bed ready to be used to treat Malcolm. So he begins his work.

It doesn’t take long, but every moment that he’s fixing up the cuts that Malcolm put in himself feels like an eternity. He’s gentle but goes as quickly as he can, knowing that he needs sleep and that he’s going to have to watch over him. 

Malcolm is practically a rag doll for Gil to maneuver into bed. He’s tucked in without the cuffs but he had the extra weight of someone sitting next to him to keep him company. A shaking hand cards through his hair as even more shaky words speak to him. He can’t make them out but the exhaustion is catching up to him. Malcolm’s eyelids feel heavy and each blink is longer than the last. His eyes close and he’s asleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my first Prodigal Son fic. I’d you find any typos or general errors then let me know. Also, if any of you want then I would not mind making a second chapter for this.


End file.
